


Untitled Project 1001

by mktellstales



Series: First Draft Brain Dumps [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brain Dump, FIx It, Grown up Rosie, Heavy on the ROUGH, M/M, Mature just for language, May have been inspired by watching Mama Mia, Post S4, Rough Draft Quality, Sherlock and his bees!, Short & Sweet, The boys are never on the same page
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 04:15:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11305482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mktellstales/pseuds/mktellstales
Summary: Sherlock has lived alone in the country for quite some time without a word from John, but many thoughts of him. Rosie, grown up and about to be married, tracks down the elusive man from her past to ask a favor of him. When he comes face to face with John again, can their relationship finally grow the way it was meant to?





	Untitled Project 1001

**Author's Note:**

> Again, not formatted, and so very lightly edited - I don't even use quotation marks this time!   
> But, I'd rather get my thousands of ideas out there even in horrible, rough shape than let them sit forever and never be heard.
> 
> \- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

John tried to forgive Sherlock for Mary’s death. He spent more time at Baker Street, shared the beauty and the dread of raising a child, they chased criminals over the old, London streets, and one night, whatever it was _,_ became what it should have always been. They bent and folded against one another with broken passion and a desire that would have consumed them both had they held on to it any longer, but the ecstasy soon became agony for John, and he couldn’t do it anymore. He left and took Rosie with him. 

Twenty years went by, and Sherlock found solace in the countryside; rolling green pastures, thick, sturdy apple trees, hollyhocks, primrose, foxglove, magnificent, monochromatic, fiery sunrises, and of course, his bees. He’s on the back porch one morning, bare feet on the dusty wooden planks, steam from his tea mingling with the early fog when he hears a knock on his front door. 

He isn’t expecting visitors because he’s never expecting visitors, and he’s expecting Rosie; ashen hair, and bright blue eyes even less. She tells him she’s getting married, and though her time with Sherlock was brief, she wants him to be there.

_I remember you, or things about you. I was just a baby and you used to show me objects then hide them around the flat for me to find, and when dad was angry, you took me to the park and sang to me: ‘and when, when the night falls on you baby, you’re feeling all alone, you’re wandering on your own, I’ll stand by you’._

_Your father sang that song to me once. I liked it_

But of course, he can’t go. John hasn’t spoken to him in 20 years, and the way they left things - there’s only so many punches Sherlock is willing to take, even for something as terrible as what he did. And it doesn’t matter that Rosie tells him John watches the DVD he left for him so long ago every year on his birthday or that when he’s drunk she can pry out little pieces of information about their life together before he starts to cry and leaves the room like it never happened. Sherlock can’t be forgiven.

_I’m sorry, Rosamund._

_It’s Friday at St. Agnes at 3 if you change your mind. Reception is in their garden._

When Friday comes, Sherlock decides he’s going to go. He watches the ceremony from the back of the church, finds the man she’s marrying to be acceptable - even from a distance, and catches up to her at the reception to give her a gift he purchased three days earlier. He kisses her cheek, and is about to leave, telling her he should slip away before John sees him, but John is already there - standing behind them. 

He’s angry, but Sherlock still finds the beauty there in his near complete silver head of hair, his dulled gray eyes, and the defined wrinkles of his scowl. John questions why he’s there and Rosie admits it was she who invited him. 

_This is your wedding day, and it isn’t my place to scold you any longer, but he needs to be gone._

Sherlock makes to the leave the reception, but Rosie begs him to stay, because she wants to dance with him, and so Sherlock hides himself away in the vestibule of the church. It isn’t long before John finds him again there, and he sits down on the bench next to him. It’s been a very long time since Sherlock’s felt John’s presence, and the weight of his existence pulls on him. Sherlock apologizes for not leaving, but he didn’t want to make Rosie upset, and John seems to agree. Then they’re quiet for a few moments, John looking across to the stained glass windows of the church, and Sherlock looking at John. 

  _Don’t do that._

_Do what?_

_You bloody well know what - don’t deduce me. If you want to know something, ask._

_When did you become a cat person?_

_Too easy._

_Alright. Don’t send back the mattress. You haven’t been sleeping well because of the stress of your only child getting married, not because of the new bed. You can’t do better than memory foam - it’s completely changed my life.”_

_I hate you._

_I don’t doubt that._

_You can stay. If you’d like._

_Thank you, John._

John leaves, and Sherlock does as well shortly after, and Rosie comes to cash on her dance. It’s halfway through, and he’s noticing how much she looks like Mary did on her wedding day with John when he suddenly can’t breathe. He loosens the collar of his shirt, but it doesn’t help, and when John comes over and puts his hand - his strong, concerned hand - on Sherlock’s shoulder, he breaks his way through the mills of people to an empty space in the garden to find some air.

John comes to him, that stupid, beautiful look of worry and responsibility etched over his face, he asks Sherlock if he’s alright, putting both hands on him this time, and Sherlock jolts away, barking out that he’s perfectly fine, but that he never should have come.

_It’s fine that you did._

_Don’t you do that._

_Do what?_

_Make exceptions for me._

_Would you rather I tell you to fuck off?_

_Yes!_

_Fine, Sherlock, fuck off!_

_Thank you!_

_Because you are fantastic and brilliant, and god-damned so fucking handsome, and you are truly a kind man, but you are also egotistical, a liar, and reckless. No matter how good you made me feel there was always another moment when you broke my heart._

  _Which is precisely why I’ve always preferred not to have one._

_See, there you go with the lying._

_I said I prefer not to have one not that I was ever successful in the endeavor._

They’ve calmed down, but tense silence is still filling the space between them.

  _It wasn’t your fault - about Mary. Not any more than it was mine, or her own for that matter. I’ve known that for a long time now, and I’ve wanted to tell you - I picked up the phone a hundred times, but I always put it back down._

_Doesn’t matter. You’ve told me now._

_But do you believe me?_

_Yes._

_Then dance with me?_

John’s hand is outstretched, and it takes a minute for Sherlock’s mind to catch up with the moment, a kind of magic only John ever possessed, but he does take his hand, and John pulls him in close, so close. The evening is starting to turn to night, and they move together to the muffle of the music. It’s an apology, an absolution for two decades of fear and stupidity from two men who could never find themselves on the same page. But now, maybe now they’re there.

_What was it, Sherlock?_

_It was love, John. Obviously._

Sherlock revels in the sound of John’s laughter and runs his fingers through his hair and down the sides of his face. He’s wanted to kiss him again for so long, and so he doesn’t waste another moment. John tastes like champagne and cocoa, and it’s the best thing Sherlock has ever tasted, the only thing he wants to taste for the rest of his life.  


End file.
